Down the Rabbit Hole
by Satu-D-2
Summary: One day old, Piccolo can already define what madness is. It's the voice of his father, the endless, seething hate, the laughter that haunts him. It's the image of a spiky-haired boy who he doesn't yet know but already hates. What Piccolo doesn't yet know is that there are many ways of being mad. Based on the Pint-Sized Prompts run by the lovely u/Atojiso. March: March Madness
1. Flickering

March 1st: Flickering - 100 words - A dim room. A singular, flickering light. Maniacal laughter comes from the shadows.

Thank you to the ever wonderful and magical DeeJayMil for her help in both my title and my summary. Dee, you are marvellous and supportive and just generally fantastic. Thank you xoxox

I am also not keeping to the word counts. Is hard enough without that XD

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"Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ "

The silence of the room broke as a vase shattered against the door. A child was curled up in the far corner. Small green hands clasped over long pointed ears. His voice had been cracked and broken, desperate and furious. The word demon was emblazoned in red on his purple surcoat.

Laughter surrounded him. Vicious cackling that grated and hurt his sensitive ears. It seemed to be burrowing in and bouncing around the inside of his skull. He had no idea that this laughter was originating from inside his own mind.

 _Yes, my son, embrace the rage._

"Fuck off!"

One hand reached, groped, and caught hold of a small end table. With considerable force he flung it towards the door, where he thought the laughter was coming from, and it shattered into splinters.

"Leave me alone!"

The voice didn't stop. The laughter didn't stop. Tears of helplessness burned in his eyes and he lashed out until the small room around him was in ruins, splintered and shattered, deep claw marks from his four long nails marking the solid wood. Eventually he cried himself to sleep, curled up and clutching at his shoulders.

Within his mind the influence of his father continued to exert itself, inserting memories and an instinctive hatred of a small tailed boy with spiky hair, the boy who had, somehow, through luck or fate or skill, murdered the former Demon King. And as he slept, his body twitching and his face pulled in grimaces of pain and anger, the evil of his father sunk deeper, claws of fire into his very soul. He was helpless. Despite hatching only a day ago, he was already being bombarded from every angle with this message of hate and violence.

He never had a chance.


	2. Towering

March 2nd: Towering - 200 words - A character gets provoked, the result is a towering rage!

When he woke up the next morning his head hurt. A dull, throbbing hurt that started at the base of his antenna and arced backwards to catch at the top of his spine. He couldn't stay here. This room reminded him too much of the voice and the laughter that was, currently at least, silent.

The old couple who had found his egg were outside. He was vaguely aware of their minds, pressing close together for comfort. They didn't realise what they'd found. In their naivety they still considered him a gift from the gods. A child to raise.

A child. He simultaneously was and wasn't. His body was small and, currently at least, weak, but his mind was rapidly stretching and growing. The memories and the voice of his father filled him. His father? Himself?

He didn't know.

Why did it have to be so fucking complicated!?

Taking small steps on trembling legs, he finally managed to reach the door. With each gentle movement it felt like his brain was going to slosh out of his ears, making him wince and bare his fangs in a grimace.

The door was locked. They'd locked him in. Cowards.

One hand lifted. Gripped the handle firmly. Muscles tensed and he pulled back will all his strength. The lock held, it was sturdy and well wrought. The doorjamb, however, splintered and pulled away.

The elderly couple scrambled away from him. Fear oozed from their pores, an acrid oily smell that lingered in his nose. It made him furious, this weakness, this terror, and he glared at them. The woman held out her hands, pleading.

"Momotaro, please, stop this!"

His ears twitched. Fury blossomed in his gut, making him snarl and bare small sharp fangs. One small, green, four-fingered hand lifted, pointed palm out at her. It was almost a movement of supplication, but the rage blazing in his eyes made them cower.

"My name…" he said slowly, his voice low and deliberate. A rose of flame unfurled from his hand, stretching out glowing petals towards her. She started to sob, grabbing her husband's hand and pulling him away from the fire and outside. The man allowed himself to be pulled, shocked into a profound silence in his fear. The boy's lips curled up in a cold, angry smile as he watched them go, dilated pupils sliding sideways to track their exit. "…is Piccolo."


End file.
